


Gravestone Chest

by bizzybee



Series: Dorogrid Week 2020 [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), kind of, what if we kissed once and then just kind of didnt talk about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24382804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bizzybee/pseuds/bizzybee
Summary: There isn't any happiness in war.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Series: Dorogrid Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1757857
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	Gravestone Chest

**Author's Note:**

> For Dorogrid Week Day Three: Conflicted Feelings!
> 
> Title from "Honey and Milk" by Flower Faces

Dorothea’s never been one for gardening. There’s something about the third floor terrace, though, that brings a sense of peace, of separation to her. Here, there is no war. There is no death. There’s only her breath, crystallizing in the cool spring night before her, the chirping of the crickets, the scent of roses, the sight of the moon above her, illuminating the overgrown garden in a warm glow. 

It's only when she hears a clatter and a muffled curse behind her that she realizes she's not alone. She turns. 

The look on Ingrid's face is almost enough to get her to laugh. Almost.

"Sorry," Ingrid winces. "I'm gonna…" 

Dorothea raises an eyebrow. 

"Yeah. I'm gonna go." Ingrid turns. 

"You don't... have to," Dorothea says before she can stop herself.

Ingrid pauses. Dorothea turns back to the stars, silently making room on the bench.

"Did you want to, you know…" Out of the corner of her eye, Dorothea watches as Ingrid wets her lips, pausing before taking her seat. "Talk about it?" 

"Ah. Not especially." 

Ingrid nods, propping her chin in her hands. "Okay."

Dorothea lets the silence envelop them again, her eyes sliding closed. She tries to ignore the fidgety warmth of Ingrid next to her; it's not that she lied when she said Ingrid could stay, but the presence of another person interrupts her thoughts, as though everything that goes through Dorothea's head can be inexplicably read when they look at her. 

"It's nice up here." Ingrid breaks the silence. Dorothea opens her eyes, glancing at her. "Very, um. Pleasant. Lots of plants." 

"Yeah." 

There's something oddly comforting about Ingrid's endearing awkwardness, the way she keeps looking at Dorothea, and then back at the sky, hands clasping in her lap.

“You look like you’re trying to say something, my Ingrid,” Dorothea says, voice wry. 

“It’s nothing.” 

“Okay.” It’s been a long week. Dorothea knows Ingrid doesn’t mean to play games like this, but, truly, if she won’t come right out and say it, Dorothea isn’t one for guessing. 

“You just seem closed off,” Ingrid says. 

Dorothea’s head droops. 

“And, it’s nothing,” Ingrid tries. “Just, I miss you. And you can talk to me, if you want.”

The night is cool against Dorothea’s skin, and dark against the surrounding walls. It feels like Dorothea, and now, Ingrid, are the only two people in the world, side by side, the moon watching over them. 

“I miss you too,” Dorothea hates the way her voice cracks at that. 

“If you’re mad at me, of if you blame me, or-” 

Dorothea cuts Ingrid off with a shake of her head. 

Ingrid mumbles an apology. 

“Don’t apologize,” Dorogrid says, rubbing her temples. “I just don’t know how to explain it to you in a way you’ll understand.”

She can feel Ingrid freeze, can practically see her nostrils flare with the perceived insult. But instead of snapping back, Ingrid pauses, then softens. 

“Okay,” she says instead, sighing. Dorothea watches as her frown shifts into a smile, small and sad and trying. “I’ll still, you know. Listen.” 

Dorothea frowns. Ingrid looks away. 

“It just,” Dorothea stares at her lap, “All feels a little bit hypocritical.”

Ingrid watches. 

“I know we’ve been killing people, all these years,” Dorothea continues. She swallows down the lump in her throat. “But this is the first one that mattered.” 

“You two were close.” It’s not a question.

“It’s not even that.” Dorothea shakes her head, shutting her eyes against her gathering tears. “He annoyed me to no end, it’s just-” 

When Ingrid’s hand comes to rest on her knee, it’s not unwelcome, Dorothea realizes. It feels comforting, if not personal. Dorothea stares at that hand, watches as a tear drops, trailing down and resting in a divet at Ingrid’s knuckles. Ingrid’s fingers curl, catching in the fabric of Dorothea’s skirt. 

“It’s just… very lonely,” Dorothea says, only now realizing. “Having to kill old friends, while you and the other generals are so close. You grew up together. And you're killing my friends together. And it hurts. It’s lonely, and I don’t know how to change that.”

"Dorothea."

"And if only I could've talked to him-"

"Dorothea, you wouldn't have been able to save him, not alone."

Dorothea doesn't answer.

"I'm sorry you're lonely." Ingrid says, then winces. "I mean-" 

"No, don't. Thank you," Dorothea says, glancing at Ingrid with eyes as kind as she can make them. "Thank you."

Ingrid tentatively smiles back. 

"It's just hard." 

"I'm sorry."

Dorothea purses her lips. Ingrid starts to say something, then stops. Their knees knock together when Ingrid turns, thumb stroking against Dorothea's knee. "I know you hate the war," Ingrid says. "If I ever, um, added to your pain…"

"Ingrid." Dorothea steels herself. "Can we just not talk about it? Not right now. Not tonight."

Ingrid turns away again, hand stilling. 

"Can we talk about happier times?" Dorothea asks. "Please?" 

"Do you remember that winter two years ago?" Ingrid says as an answer. "When it snowed?" 

"Oh, don't remind me." But even now, Dorothea can feel the weight start to lift, if only a bit, if only temporarily. 

"I still can't believe you'd never seen snow before." 

"It's warmer in the Empire! And it was a humid winter at Garreg Mach." 

"That was a good week, yeah?" 

It had been. Dorothea was visiting House Galatea on her way to Fhirdiad, and she and Ingrid spent the week together, discussing the war, helping the townspeople, drinking by the fire, and at night, sleeping in the same bed, swapping secrets and stories like schoolchildren. 

Halfway through the trip, a blizzard hit. When Ingrid found out Dorothea had never seen snow, she insisted they take a winter picnic across the grounds. It was there that- 

Ingrid shifts. "Do you ever think about-" 

"No," Dorothea lies. 

She did think about it, though, and often. The way their playful joking, Ingrid's nervous and Dorothea's all too confident, had so easily turned into- 

"I do," Ingrid says, letting out a short little laugh. 

The roof seems to be getting smaller, shrinking to the size of Ingrid's hand on Dorothea's knee. Dorothea knows she should say- something. Anything. But her throat feels tight, her mind claimed by memories. 

Memories of the way Ingrid had kissed her, memories of the way they'd fallen into the snow, memories of how Ingrid's hand buried themselves in her hair, and the way Ingrid's waist was soft and pliant under layers of clothing, and the way their lips fit together like they were meant to be there. Memories of how they didn't part until Dorothea felt snow flooding down the back of her coat. Memories of how they hadn't spoken of it, not until Ingrid just had to bring it up. 

Actually, Dorothea thinks, Ingrid's definitely distracted her as promised. Maybe this was her plan all along? Dear Goddess.

"I miss you," Ingrid says again, but this time it tastes different, more genuine, more gentle. "I miss our friendship."

And, of course, that night, Dorothea had lain next to Ingrid, wondering if she should roll over and kiss her again, so consumed by thoughts that she didn't realize Ingrid was asleep until she heard her snoring.

When Dorothea had left, she didn't see or speak to Dorothea again until they reunited at the Monastery. Since then, their friendship had been jilted, awkward, things left unsaid between them. 

"I know things are… hard right now," Ingrid continues, swallowing. "But that's my piece." A beat, "You don't have to say anything back. Just, that's it."

Dorothea stares at Ingrid's hand, still cupped around her knee, tinged pink in the cold air. Slowly, without looking, she leans her head against Ingrid, Ingrid's breath hot on the top of her head when she turns. 

"I miss our friendship, too," Dorothea says into Ingrid's shoulder. "I miss you." 

Ingrid's hand, coming up from her knee to slide against Dorothea's jaw, is cold against her skin. Dorothea shivers.

"So how about it," Dorothea says softly, eyes closed. "Friends again?" 

"Friends." Dorothea can feel Ingrid smile against her hair.

"Hey, Ingrid? Thank you." 

"You're welcome, Dorothea." 

A moment's silence. 

"I do think about that day," Dorothea confesses. "I think of it often." She can hear Ingrid's sharp intake of breath. "I just," she bites her lip, "I don't think I can give you what you're looking for right now."

Without hesitation, Ingrid kisses the crown of Dorothea's head. "Okay." 

Dorothea turns her head into Ingrid, pressing an indiscriminate kiss to her shoulder. "Thank you." 

"Know I'm here for you," Ingrid says. "In, you know, whatever way you need."

* * *

The next few days are almost pleasant. Dorothea never realized how much she missed Ingrid's company, her friendship. They train together, eat meals together, and Dorothea learns the sound of Ingrid's real laugh again.

Of course, most nights Dorothea cries herself to sleep, plagued with the vision of Ferdinand falling by her own hand. One friend, one conversation isn't going to change it. But having Ingrid back helps alleviate some of the pain, and that's enough.

"Why, Dorothea," Ingrid says one day in the gardens, making eye contact with Dorothea over her teacup. "It's been quite awhile since I've seen that look in your eye." 

"What look?" Dorothea teases, looking away. It's warm out, the spring sun shining down on them, and while Dorothea still has a knot of anxiety and sadness pooled in her chest, she only hesitates a moment before returning Ingrid's smile.

"You're up to something." 

"Maybe." Dorothea shrugs, raising her eyebrows.

"Care to share?" 

In answer, Dorothea passes a parcel from her lap across the table. 

"What's this?" Ingrid's brow furrows. 

"Consider it a late birthday present." 

"Dorothea, I-"

"I know I didn't have to," Dorothea cuts her off. "I wanted to." 

Ingrid gives her an unreadable look, pulling it closer.

"As thanks for the other night." 

"You didn't have to thank me for that."

"Yeah, well, I did anyway. So there." Dorothea glances down at her hands, taking a sip of rapidly cooling tea. She's not used to feeling shy, she'd gotten over that phase even before her academy days, but something about Ingrid's earnest eyes makes it hard to meet her gaze.

"Dorothea." When Dorothea looks up, Ingrid's looking at the brush in her lap, wetting her lips. 

"I thought you might like it," Dorothea says, brushing her hair out of her face. "For Octavia." 

"Did you know my other hard brush was breaking?" Ingrid traces her fingers across the carving on the back, a small heart encircled with vines. 

"I didn't even know that that's what it was called," Dorothea laughs nervously. "I just saw it at a supplies stall and thought-"

"I love it," Ingrid says. "It's- Thank you. Wow. Thank you." 

"Anything for my Ingrid." 

Ingrid looks up, tears in her eyes. 

"Oh, Ingrid, don't cry."

"I'm not," Ingrid protests, swiping at her nose. She pushes out a breath. "Let's drink this tea, yeah?" 

The next day, there's a bouquet of flowers greeting Dorothea outside her door. 

There's no note, but Dorothea doesn't need one.

* * *

Their next battle is brutal. They face not only the Empire, but the alliance, and the fighting drags through the day and far into the night. Dorothea kills without question, and it's only in the warm light of the dawn that she sees the carnage she helped create, the flames still smoldering on the center hill, dead bodies littered listlessly on the ground. 

She steps away, dry heaves overtaking her body. 

When they finally arrive back at the Monastery, Dorothea crawls into Ingrid's bed without explanation. If Ingrid's surprised, she doesn't show it. She merely combs through Dorothea's hair, untangling the knots until it lies flat and dry on her neck.

In the morning, Dorothea's head is killing her. Her throat is parched, her eyes glued shut. 

"I, um, brought you some water." 

Dorothea forces her eyes open. There's Ingrid, fully dressed bending down in front of her, a look of concern on her face.

"You should drink it," Ingrid continues. "I think you're dehydrated."

Dorothea takes the glass, pushing herself into a sitting position before raising it to her lips. 

"I was gonna get Manuela if you slept another day." Ingrid sits on the foot of the bed, staring down at her hands. "I was worried."

"How long…?" Dorothea's voice croaks. 

"Full day, full night." Ingrid's mouth quirks up in a smile. "I'm glad you're up now, though."

Dorothea drinks the entire glass of water without speaking again, then wipes her mouth and sets it aside. "Thanks." 

"How are you feeling?" 

"Like shit." 

"That's expected." 

"Your bedside manner is terrible." Dorothea coughs out a laugh.

"I'm not a healer." Ingrid raises her hands in defense. 

Dorothea pauses, tears coming to her eyes. "Thank you for the water."

"Oh, shit, um," Ingrid reaches across her desk, "Here." She stuffs a wad of tissue into Dorothea's hands. 

"Thanks." 

Ingrid pats Dorothea on the shoulder as she blows her nose and wipes at her eyes, a pained expression on her face. 

"Did we lose anyone?" Dorothea asks. "At Gronder?" 

Ingrid shakes her head. "Sylvain was badly injured, but they say he'll pull through."

"Okay. Do me a favor and don't tell me about the Empire losses right now." 

Ingrid nods, returning her gaze to her hands. 

"Ingrid?" 

"Mm?" 

Dorothea pinches the bridge of her nose. "Can you help me up? I need to go eat."

Once Dorothea is planted at a seat in the dining hall, a dish of soup in front of her and Ingrid across from her, she finally starts to come back to the present. The voices feel less muted, colors less dull as she eats first one, then two bowls. 

"Are you feeling any better?" Ingrid asks. 

Dorothea looks up at her. "A bit."

They sit in silence. Dorothea sets her spoon in the empty bowl with a clink. 

"Don't take this the wrong way," Ingrid starts.

"What?" 

"You need to, uh, get cleaned up," Ingrid says. "There's a lot of-" she gestures vaguely at Dorothea- "-blood and dirt and gunk. Just, you know, since you're done eating. Might be a good idea."

Dorothea frowns. “How bad is it?” 

The answer is truly terrible. It’s not for a full hour that Dorothea gets clean, but she’s feeling much better, though, with a clean face and food in her. When Ingrid pokes her head in to see how she’s doing, she’s only just settled down at the vanity to comb through her hair.

“Is everything alright?” Dorothea asks through the mirror. 

“Fine,” Ingrid says. “Just wanted to, you know, make sure you didn’t drown in the washbasin.” 

Dorothea huffs out a laugh. “My hero,” she says wryly. 

Ingrid hovers in the doorway. 

"You can come in," Dorothea says. "I need help with my hair, anyway." 

"I'm not good at stuff like that-" 

"I just need you to brush it." Dorothea cuts in. "My shoulders are so tightly wound from the battle I can't reach behind there as easily." She lifts her arms to demonstrate. 

Ingrid watches her with round eyes, frozen halfway across the room. 

"What?" Dorothea says. 

Ingrid gives her head a little shake, stepping forward. "It's nothing." She flashes Dorothea a smile. "Do you have a brush?" 

"Of course," Dorothea says, passing it back. 

She's almost surprised at how gently Ingrid combs back her hair, passing the brush through her locks. They sit in silence, Dorothea relaxing under Ingrid's gentle care, the way she combs through larger knots with her fingers, the way her callouses brush against the back of Dorothea's neck in a way that makes her shiver. 

"I've always been jealous of your hair," Ingrid says it like a confession, laughing nervously as she ducks her head, running the brush from root to tip. 

"Hm?" 

"Not in the way where I wanted it," Ingrid says. "I like mine short, but…" 

"Yes?" Dorothea says. She's never sure how to react when Ingrid gets all nervous like this, speaking so fast it's as if she doesn't say what she's thinking right away, she'll lose the courage to.

"It's just very soft." Ingrid swallows. Her hands have stilled. "And smooth. I could never get mine to be like that, even now that it's so short." 

"I like your hair, too," Dorothea says. "It fits you." 

"Oh, thanks." Ingrid resumes brushing. "Do you want me to braid it for you? I can at least do that." 

"That would be nice," Dorothea says, smiling. Part of her doesn't want Ingrid's hands to leave her hair. Part of her thinks if Ingrid doesn't let go of her right now, she might die. 

Ingrid's hands are deft and practiced as she splits Dorothea's hair into three sections, braiding it back loosely. She takes a band from her own wrist to secure the braid, and Dorothea watches through the mirror as Ingrid's hands linger, bracing Dorothea's shoulders by the nape of her neck. They sear into Dorothea's still-damp skin, and Dorothea wonders if, when Ingrid pulls back, she'll be burned. 

“Ingrid,” Dorothea says. 

Ingrid steps back, removing her hands. 

“Ingrid,” Dorothea repeats. 

“What?” Ingrid busies herself by picking at the loose strands of hair caught in Dorothea’s brush.

“You can touch my hair,” Dorothea says, heart pounding. “I don’t mind.” 

Ingrid looks up briefly, then drops her gaze again, face red. “No, it’s alright.” 

Dorothea stands. “I said,” she steps closer. “I don’t mind.”

Dorothea’s tired, and she’s had enough. It’s not just the loneliness that drives her to take Ingrid’s hand and set it back in her hair. It’s Ingrid, the way that, even now, she’s looking at Dorothea so reverently, like she’s not really sure she’s there. It’s Ingrid, the way she snorts when she laughs and can never stop talking about her horse. Dorothea’s loneliness may always be there, and she’s absolutely sure she won’t be able to heal until the war is over, but, for now, maybe Ingrid’s presence can help alleviate the more immediate, shallow hole in her heart. 

Ingrid’s fingers slide under the braid, interlocking, cradling Dorothea’s head in their grasp. As if entranced, Ingrid falls forward, lips planting a kiss on the corner of Dorothea’s jaw. 

“Are you- Is this-” Ingrid’s breath hitches when Dorothea rests her hands on her hips, and, Goddess, Dorothea thinks, if that’s all it takes-

“You can kiss me,” Dorothea says, pulling herself out of her thoughts. “If you want.” 

Ingrid’s eyes widen as she pauses, then leans in. Their kiss is slower this time, more shy, like she’s not too sure what is happening right now, but when Dorothea traces her tongue across Ingrid’s bottom lip, she opens her mouth, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. 

It’s almost chaste, Dorothea thinks, both their hands not moving, nothing but silence and the push and pull of their lips in the room, eyes fluttering shut. 

When Ingrid pulls back, her breathing is heavy, pupils blown. “What was that for?”

Dorothea’s brow creases. “Sorry?” 

“No, it’s just, you said-”

“I know what I said.” Dorothea sighs. “I just missed you. Even this past month, with our friendship rekindled, I missed you. It’s hard enough having to be in this war, having to kill friends that I once knew, and I just… Why was I denying myself the one glimpse of happiness I’ve had in the last five years? You’re so handsome, so hardworking, and I’m simply enamored with you. With all of you.” 

Ingrid’s jaw is dropped, her lips red and kissed thoroughly, and Dorothea resists the urge to laugh at the look of wonder and disbelief on her face. 

“I, um, yes,” Ingrid says. “I like you, too.” She bites her lip. “Can I kiss you again?”

Dorothea nods, and when Ingrid leans in, lips soft and pliant, Dorothea’s heart feels the ever-constant weight start to lift, just a little. 

It’s not gone, and she’s not sure if it ever will be. 

But with Ingrid's help, it's easier to bear.

**Author's Note:**

> [@bizzybee429 on twitter](https://twitter.com/bizzybee429) [@officialferdinand on tumblr](http://officialferdinand.tumblr.com)


End file.
